Wind.

Cold wind.

The knife is fast.

But faster than a knife is the human heart.

He stood at the bridgehead, like a stone.

The sword in hand has been held for three hours.

The knuckles are pale, it's not tiredness, it's waiting.

Waiting for a person, a matter.

Someone is urging in the tavern next door.

"Sir, the noodles are getting cold."

He didn't look back.

It's better to cool down than to rush and upset your stomach.

Just like a sword, if it is sharpened too quickly, it is likely to break.

The sound of hooves came from afar, urgent.

Like wanting to crush the road.

His eyes lit up.

hand, but steadier.

Those who are anxious often die faster.

The wind is colder.

The sword has finally moved.

No frills, just fast.

Fast as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times.

The slowness of those three time periods was precisely for the quickness of this moment.

Blood, falling on the ground.

Very popular.

He picked up the wine jug and took a sip.

The alcohol is strong.

Just like those who understand slowness often know best how to be fast.